Poker Face
by Winter Enchantment
Summary: Somewhere between the first drink and the last, Halduron remembers why doing anything with Lor'themar when heavy drinking is involved is usually a bad idea. Explicit. Warnings for: alcohol use, strip poker, oral sex, voyeurism, and Lor'themar having the alcohol tolerance of a god.


Halduron didn't quite remember what it was that had started them on this track, his memory only bringing him flashes of the past few hours. He could recall Lor'themar being in unusually high spirits at dinner, something having happened to put him into an unassailably good mood, but couldn't recall what it was. Only being swept along in his wake, just as Rommath was drawn as well.

Somehow they had ended up in Lor'themar's rooms; spread comfortably around the sitting room sipping drink much harder than the light wine from dinner and talking surprisingly amicably. Though he and Rommath tended to snipe at each-other, they had managed to hold their more spiteful comments to themselves in the shared interest of preserving Lor'themar's mood. Seeing his old friend smiling as he had before the Scourge invasion was well worth the difficulty of holding his tongue and waiting until Lor'themar was distracted by refilling their glasses to share dirty, though perhaps a bit childish, looks with Rommath.

And…Lor'themar had been refilling their glasses, that certainly explained some of it. Halduron prided himself on his alcohol tolerance, as all self-respecting Rangers did, but sometimes he forgot that Lor'themar had been a self-respecting Ranger much longer than he had and had the tolerance to match. Rommath he wasn't sure about, the Grand Magister's absolute composure being unrivaled in all of Quel'thalas, but Halduron thought he noticed his hands becoming slowly less steady as the evening wore on as well as colour beginning to warm his face, although Halduron didn't see him without his mask often enough to gauge what it meant.

Trying to focus his memory to bring more of the night back to him, Halduron suddenly, vividly, remembered Lor'themar finding a deck of cards somewhere and suggesting a few friendly rounds of poker. They'd gone through another bottle of the fine, and more importanly strong, dark rum that Lor'themar somehow managed not only to acquire but to keep hidden in his apartments. Rommath had been somewhat reluctant, but Lor'themar's happy insistence and Halduron's subtle challenge had drawn him into the game as surely as a predator scenting blood.

After a few hands of cards for imaginary stakes and another bottle of rum that Lor'themar had produced with all the flourish of an alcoholic magician—impressing even Rommath, whose eyes had lost their steeliness and who was most definitely blushing from all the drink he'd had—someone suggested they raise the stakes. Haldruon thinks it may have been him, thoughts padded with spirits and blood warm just under his skin. He's sure he's blushing too, even Lor'themar—who has to spend hours in the sun before his skin turns anything beyond pale—has colour soft in his cheeks and at the tips of his ears. The air seems to be growing sweeter and more intoxicating than the drink; helped along when Lor'themar finds his pipe and fills it with Bloodthistle, holding the stem between his teeth in a way that curls his lip and makes Rommath tut about Rangers and their bad habits. Lor'themar breathes smoke at him and laughs, Rommath tries batting at the air to clear it away, and Halduron can hear his own voice suggesting they play for something more substantial, naming favors or clothing as the first things that come to mind.

He can remember clearly now because he's caught himself back up to where he is, turning is attention back to their game and his cards. Rommath's mask which he'd drawn from where it hung loose around his shoulders now sitting at the center of the low table they were gathered around, joined by Lor'themar's gloves and his own pauldrons. He can see Lor'themar's teeth clenched sharp around his pipe and the curls of smoke make his pale hair seem ghostly aroound his face, though Halduron can't remember when he loosed it. Rommath's impeccable posture relaxed for the first time he's ever seen, the Grand Magister leaning heavily into the cushions as he examines his cards. Halduron realizes that somewhere along the line he had unfastened his light armour and is wearing the leather chest-piece like a jacket.

The stakes grow steadily higher, rounds of betting going by and the shed clothing piling up on the table: Lor'themar's paudrons joining his, his own gloves, Rommath's robe. However it isn't until Lor'themar gives up struggling with his armour and bets a favor instead that anyone thinks of calling an end to their hand. A tension starts to rise in the room, they all examine their cards.

Rommath had won, intoxication smoothing his victorious expression from smug and self-satisfied to merely pleased. Halduron found himself under the disconcerting impression that if he spent more time with Rommath when he was free of his usual manner he might grow to actually like the man. Watching him drag their discarded articles of clothing clumsily toward himself was endearing enough that Halduron found himself laughing.

Lor'themar, however, stayed quiet; setting his pipe aside to study Rommath. The Grand Magister smiled slightly, "I wonder what to do with the favor you owe me," he said, words slurring slightly but voice pleased.

"You'll collect it now," Lor'themar replied, and when Rommath laughed he slid from his place on the couch and moved so he knelt in front of Rommath.

The Grand Magister was bare from the waist up, the winding geometric shapes of his tattoos stark lines against the deep gold of his skin, his robe spread across the table with the cards and their other lost garments; as he leaned forward to look Lor'themar squarely in the eye Halduron watched the lean muscle in his chest and shoulders shift gracefully. He imagined he felt like the sky did before a lightning strike, and purposefully drew in a deep breath, waiting to hear Rommath's response.

"Will I?" He asked, in a tone Halduron could only call playful.

"I don't like being held in the debt of others," Lor'themar replied lowly, holding Rommath's gaze for a long moment before leaning forward and brushing their lips together.

This is the lighting strike; Halduron thinks he can feel himself being pinned to the couch. He is unable to do anything but watch as Rommath lifts a hand to tangle in Lor'themar's hair, their kiss deepening. Lor'themar's hands trace from where they fell on Rommath's knees to the ties of the silken pants he wears, tugging until they're loose on Rommath's hips and then yanking them down, startling Rommath into breaking their kiss as the last of his clothing is stripped away.

Halduron can tell even from Lor'themar's profile that the smile he gives Rommath has far too many teeth in it to be pleasant, the way Rommath seems to shiver as he looks down at Lor'themar confirms it. Seeing Rommath nude is less of a shock than it should be, but Haldruon is too distracted by Lor'themar pushing Rommath's knees further apart and slipping from his kneeling position to sit more firmly on the floor.

Rommath is half-hard by the time Lor'themar first leans forward to nuzzle his inner thighs, a soft breath leaving him as he fists his hands in the couch. He looks gut-punched, as though all the air has been pulled out of the room and what's left is the fading smoke from Lor'themar's pipe and the scent of strong alcohol. Halduron is frozen, he considers getting up and leaving them their privacy but somehow it seems like that would shatter everything. Instead of doing anything he and Rommath both are strangely hypnotized by Lor'themar's mouth.

Lor'themar has never had a particularly fine mouth: it isn't pouting or soft, it's wide but not full enough that it could be called 'inviting', and even for an elf his teeth have always too sharp for comfort. But watching him nip at Rommath's inner thighs in a way that makes the Grand Magister shake—laving his tongue over the tiny marks he leaves and breathing hotly over Rommath's now-rigid cock—is enough to bring Halduron to hardness as well.

He can feel himself straining almost painfully against his leather breeches, but doesn't dare move or do more than breathe. Lor'themar leans forward, running the tip of his tongue up and down the thick vein on the underside of Rommath's cock, and Halduron feels himself twitch and strain as though it had been done to him.

Halduron tears his eyes away from Lor'themar—mouthing gently at Rommath's cock, nipping at the vein as though he's deciding whether or not to draw blood, pushing Rommath's knees even further apart—to take in the Grand Magister's state. Rommath's arms are shaking as he leans back on them, he's breathing heavily through his mouth and staring down at Lor'themar with an unfathomable look on his face, the colour that had risen in his cheeks earlier has darkened and spread down his neck. When Lor'themar finally takes the head of his cock in his mouth he makes a noise like he's being strangled, his face twisting as though the pleasure somehow offends him. Halduron chokes on a noise of his own and nearly misses the soft, pleased sound Lor'themar makes in response.

Rommath is clearly fighting against himself to keep his eyes from screwing shut as Lor'themar tilts his head and draws his cock deeper into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing around it. Halduron can hear the wet noises his tongue makes as it moves like nails being pounded into his skull, going straight to his own cock.

Lor'themar draws away, the sudden lack of his attention making the muscles in Rommath's abdomen clench as he tries to regain some kind of equilibrium. Lor'themar's mouth is wet, sliding again down the underside of Rommath's cock, slick as he moves his tongue over it and slicker yet as Rommath's cock twitches and beads of precum roll from the head. Distantly, Halduron realizes he's so hard it's become painful; he wants to whimper, thinks he would if he could just get enough air into his lungs.

This time when Lor'themar takes Rommath's cock into his mouth he swallows it down to the root in an obscene slide. From where he sits Halduron can see his throat working around it and his cock throbs in time with his pounding heartbeat. Rommath is making wretched, broken sounds, falling back onto his elbows helpless against what Lor'themar is doing to him.

There is a tense moment where Halduron is afraid that this will go on forever and they will never be released, but then Rommath keens breathily and his entire body tenses as he comes. He falls back fully onto the couch, nearly crying when Lor'themar holds him in his mouth a minute longer before swallowing and pulling away. Rommath is insensate, and as Lor'themar gets to his feet he smiles down at him inanely before turning and finding his glass of rum again, draining the rest of it before turning to Halduron.

He knows the state he's in, knows what he looks like—mussed and red in the face, legs parted and straining cock evident—and the small smile Lor'themar gives him is as comforting as a bear-trap. Less comforting, when he rounds the coffee-table with a stride that is far too steady for someone who'd drank as much as he had, and twists his fingers in Halduron's shirt, drawing him up off the couch and leading him towards the bed.

Halduron thinks he whimpers then, perhaps he pleads mercy. He doesn't get any.

* * *

Notes: Lor'themar is apparently a Dipsomancer, who gains more magic the drunker he gets (and also becomes waaaaay looser and more promiscuous), also also, I continue to write him like a succubus who keeps Halduron and Rommath around for his own amusement. I am a bad person.


End file.
